I can say little about this production in general; however, the
performance
I attended proved a horribly graphic illustration of the limitations of
Peter Brook’s theatrical aesthetic.

On a black stage, bare save for an ordinary black wooden chair,
longtime
Brook associate Bruce Myers entered unobtrusively, also in black,
swathed
in a long greatcoat. For ten minutes or so he set the scene for this
self-contained
extract from Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov: Christ has
returned
to Seville at the height of the Inquisition, been arrested and now
appears
before the Cardinal Inquisitor. So far, so Brookian: the atmosphere
formal
yet unadorned, in line with the idea that sharing a story is both an
important
and a natural experience. Likewise Myers’ delivery: measured, unfussy,
assured.

A few minutes in, he paused, turned to the chair and picked up a
large
black volume in which “the Cardinal” had seemed to be making notes
earlier.
Evidently, this was in fact a prompt copy of the script. He found his
line
with an admirable lack of fuss: no shame, no concealment. By the third
or fourth time, however, it began to distract; by the tenth or twelfth,
it was clear that Myers’ memory of the main body of the 50-minute piece
had disintegrated. He would stop in mid-phrase, or try, pause, refer to
the script and correct himself. Hardly 90 seconds went by in this phase
without resort to the book. And, bare as Brook’s staging and Myers’
delivery
are, the actor’s agony was equally naked. It was impossible to
concentrate
on Dostoevsky’s densely argued text, in which the Inquisitor
forensically
dissects the Messiah’s actions and lessons. Sitting directly behind and
above Brook as I was, I could see that, although ready to take
directorial
notes, he wrote not a word, but seemed like the rest of us simply to be
willing Myers to make it to the end of his and our purgatory. For when
the simple shared experience of a Brook production goes wrong, we all
partake
of the failure. For the brief epilogue Myers recovered his memory, but
this merely allowed him to exit with a shred of dignity.

I know from previous outings that Myers is an immensely capable
performer.
I fervently hope that whatever afflicted him on this particular evening
is banished by the time the production visits the Barbican; for I would
wish such excruciating torment on no-one, performer or audience.